Tristan: Finding Hope (Nova 3.5)

I nod. "Yeah, while you were flagging the bartender down."

She rolls her tongue in her mouth like she's trying not to laugh. "When you were checking out my ass?"

I could deny it, but I don't want to. "Hey, it's a nice ass. It's hard not to look at it."

That gets her to laugh. "I knew it," she says, shaking her head with a grin as she looks ahead at the mirror in front of us.

I lean forward to catch her gaze. "Knew what?"

She laughs a little more, amused with whatever she's thinking. "That you were one of those guys."

"Those guys?" I'm curious what she means.

She doesn't answer right away or look at me. The song switches from this poppy, silly one to "All the Same" by Sick Puppies and I'm grateful because I hate club music.

Finally she looks me, slowly scanning me over from head to toe. "Blond hair, pretty blue eyes, a charming smile. You're one of those guys who knows he's hot and knows just the right thing to make a girl swoon or whatever."

"Swoon?" I question, trying not to laugh. "Really?"

She shrugs. "Hey, I'm just saying it how it is. I totally hate the word." She points a finger at me, her smile still there. "And I never do it. Ever."

"So you're saying that my blond hair, pretty blue eyes," I wink at her, "and hotness aren't affecting you at all."

She shakes her head, eyes locked on me. "I don't do pretty boys."

"Who said I was a pretty boy? What if I'm a bad boy underneath it all?"

"I don't do bad boys either."

I lean in, catching her scent. It's nice, some sort of perfume mixed with vanilla. "Then what do you do?"

She shakes her head, biting her lip again. "Nothing. Work. Go to school. Go home. That's all."

"So no guys?"

"Nope, no guys." She seems pretty adamant about it.

I'm not sure what to do with this information. On the one hand it means she doesn't have a boyfriend, but on the other hand it also means she doesn't want one or any guy for that matter. Maybe she likes girls.

"I'm not a lesbian," she says as if she can read my thoughts for the second time tonight. "I'm just not interested in dating, having a relationship, or fucking around for many, many different reasons." All her humor vanishes and all I can see is pain. It's almost overwhelming to look at and I want to look away but I can't seem to bring myself to do so. So we end up just staring at each other, unable to look away, yet unable to find anything to say.

Thankfully, the bartender comes over and interrupts us. "So what are you doing here tonight on your night off?" he asks, leaning over the counter toward Avery.

Avery nonchalantly shrugs, tearing her gaze off me and fixes it on him. "I was bored. Thought I'd get out of the house for a while."

"Good. You need to," he says and I catch him glancing down the top of her dress. In the middle of it, he notices me noticing his not so discreet checking out. "Who are you?" he asks Avery, and I can tell right away that he must have a thing for her or something by the coldness in his tone.

"This is Tristan," Avery tells him. "He's one of the people helping build my house."

"Oh." He relaxes and gives me a chin nod. "It's nice to meet you, man."

"Likewise," I say, deciding maybe it's time to make that trip to the bathroom so I can get on with my night plans.

"So what do you guys want to drink?" he asks. "First round on the house, for giving this beautiful and very deserving girl over here a roof over her head."

"I'll just have a Coke," I tell him, wishing I could say with a bit of Jack Daniel's in it.

"All right." He looks at Avery. "And I'm guessing just the usual diet Coke for you."

"Two actually. And one water." She points over her shoulder at where Quinton and Nova are sitting with a menu opened up in front of them, but their focused on each other, not picking something out to eat. "I'm here with a few more people."

"All right. Be back in a sec." He leaves to get our drinks.

"So you don't drink either, huh?" Avery asks me, fixing her attention back on me.

I shake my head. "Not really."

"And neither does Nova and Quinton, I take it."

"Yeah, are you getting excited? You get to spend the night with a bunch of boring, sober people," I joke with a forced smile.

"I'm glad," she says. "It makes it easier to keep my own sobriety."

That shocks me a little. "For how long?"

She touches her collarbone, where there's another tattoo. "Two years, three months, and fifteen days," she tells me as I read the black ink on her smooth, flawless skin. Never forget the strength it took to free yourself. "How long has it been for you?"

"I'm not a recovering alcoholic," I say, my eyes flicking back to hers.

"Then what are you?" she asks with her head angled to the side, strands of her hair framing her face; strands I want to brush back and tuck behind her ear, but I won't.

I'm not sure whether to tell her the truth. It's hard to say how she'll react. People tend to get a little scared when you mention drugs, especially things like meth and heroin. I open my mouth, fully intending just to tell her weed, but the truth comes out.

"I was into heroin and meth pretty hardcore for a while," I say and I swear to God the bag of meth in my pocket jumps out and says: And he's about to do it again.

I expect her to ask how long I've been clean, but she says, "That's good. That you got cleaned up from that I mean." She seems really nervous and reaches for a napkin and starts shredding it to pieces. "I've heard that stuff can really ruin your life." The way she says it has me wondering if she's speaking from experience. Not personally, but maybe someone close to her.

"That tattoo on your neck." Before I can stop myself, I graze my finger across it. I quickly pull my hand away, playing it off as cool, when really I want to leave my fingers there, feel the softness of her skin just a little bit longer. "You got that when you got clean?"

She tries to appear calm, but I detect a hint of a shiver, perhaps from my touch. She peels off another piece of the napkin. "Once I hit the one-year marker." She traces her finger over the tattoo and this time I notice there's a scar above it, right across her throat. It's faint but still there, across her skin. Her finger trembles as she touches the scar, then drops her hand to the countertop. "So what's it like building a house?"

It's clear she wants a subject change so I give it to her. "Honestly?" I ask and she nods. "Hot and boring."

She laughs, finally shoving the napkin to the side and looking at me again and not in a way that she has to look at me because we're sitting here, chatting. She's looking at me like she wants to look at me, like she's fully noticing me now, like she's enjoying sitting here beside me. "So why are you doing it then?"

I nod toward Nova and Quinton without taking my eyes off her. "Those two are into it and they asked me to come with them." I pause. "They keep me out of trouble."

She nods. "Gotcha. So then they're kind of like you're sponsors or something."

"Yeah, something like that," I say, not wanting to get into the details of our complicated triangle.

She's about to say something else when suddenly someone says something really loud and her attention snaps to the side of us. I sense her tense up, her hands balling into fists, her jaw setting tight. I turn to find what's got her so scared and see a guy striding toward us through the crowd with his eyes focused solely on her as he pushes people out of his path. He looks rough around the edges; short hair, goatee, arms covered in tattoos that go up to his shoulders and his neck.

"Fuck," she utters under her breath. "I can't handle this shit tonight."

I'm about to ask her what when the guy reaches us. "You didn't call me back," he says to Avery.

"That's because I had nothing to say." Avery reaches for her napkin and starts ripping it to pieces.

He moves around to the back of her and her whole body goes rigid. "We need to fucking talk, Avery. You can't just keep ignoring me."

"Of

course I can," she says, staring ahead instead of at him. "Besides, you're not even supposed to be talking to me at all. Court's orders."